MC Wildcat – Pullin' More Than Pranks (2000)

a review by Edward J. Sneed

Toronto rapper MC Wildcat’s debut album Pullin’ More Than Pranks is a crude, juvenile, and shamelessly sloppy excuse for art, which contains no true merit on any level and disgraces hip-hip culture as a whole.

In Mr. Cat’s defense, word on the street is that this “album” was inspired by the 17 year old’s return to sobriety after a five year marijuana haze, which may or may not explain why his “music” seems so profoundly out of touch with today’s hip-hop landscape, and reality in general.

Apparently this poor, misguided white boy spent nearly every single day from 1995 to 1999 baked out of his tree, until finally deciding to get straight for his year 2000 resolution. I can only presume Mr. Cat’s newfound sobriety inspired a period of intense self-reflection and re-connection with the world, which has unfortunately now put me, by virtue of being this website’s primary Canadian content reviewer, in the onerous position of having to dissect this bizarre time capsule containing Mr. Cat’s precious clear-headed insights.

I must begin this awkward task by first stating that Pranks is such a hopeless and utter debacle that frankly I consider being required to review it a complete waste of my valuable time. Though I could easily produce a thesis-length review on Pranks’ countless glaring weaknesses, since this “album” was clearly a result of very little effort, I refuse to dignify it by investing more time into my review than that which went into this musical mess, itself.

Let’s get this over with. As previously stated, there are so many painfully glaring musical errors on Pullin’ More Than Pranks that it never should have come into existence.

I’ll start with the production issues. The beats, all of which are produced by one “Fry,” sound like the soundtrack to some rejected video game over drums being played by a blind man having a bad acid trip. That’s genuinely the most diplomatic way I can think to describe them, there’s just no getting around it—the production on Pranks is essentially a collection of hyper-speed video game style melodies with sporadic, and frequently out of place drum loops pounding away jarringly beneath them.

Apparently Fry’s musical software program is known as “Melody Assistant,” which is deliciously ironic indeed, considering all the melodies on Pranks could have benefited from much assistance. As could Wildcat’s lyrical content, which ranges from owing dope dealers money to assaulting streetcar drivers with “piss-bombs,” riding his BMX stunt bike and consummating with intoxicated women at parties.

However, in spite of these self-involved adolescent musings, I will say that Prank’s one saving grace is that Fry’s fast-paced, Nintendo-ish production does actually manage to suit Mr. Cat’s nonsensical rap style, creating an odd marriage between the beats and the lyrics—one that seemingly should not work, yet somehow does.

One example is “Downtown Adventure:”

“12:30 am, bounced out of Jilly’sstreetcar down to Zanzibar, countin’ all my billieshooker talks to me while the cops drive byhalf-quarter in my pocket, and I’m already highhopin’ they don’t catch me, pound of hoodoo in my bagprayin’ they don’t know 8-ball McCraken’s my tag...”

It remains unclear to me whether this type of infantile, yet oddly humorous content (simply due to its absurdity within a rap context) is intentional, or not. If intentional then I feel Pranks should simply be taken as a poorly executed attempt to satirize current rap culture, with the real joke being on anyone who bothers to take this “album” seriously. If the comedic aspect is, however, unintentional (as I’m more inclined to believe) and merely a byproduct of Wildcat’s appalling rapping, then I sincerely hope that this poor young man doesn’t plan to have a serious rap career.

For if this unskilled “wannabe-thug” is simply rapping about his everyday experiences without realizing how wildly inappropriate a genre rap music is for this white-boy, teen-angst drivel, then I’m afraid Mr. Cat is one profoundly lost soul. If he somehow can’t see how downright silly it sounds to rap about topics like frolicking in the forest while having a picnic and being heartbroken over your bicycle getting stolen, then I can only conclude that this Cat likely has a very loose grip on reality.

Given his prolonged dope haze I consider this a very legitimate possibility, but regardless that’s still no excuse for creating such an egocentric, garage-quality, and downright indefensible excuse for a rap “record.” Honestly folks, half of these songs don’t even have choruses, and often it’s not even clear what exactly Cat’s rapping about. Seriously, what misguided burst of inspiration produced “Penny Pizza Party Time?”

“Chicken burgers, and Bacci ballPenny Pizza’s has it allIf you’re looking for the chronic weedPenny Pizza has what you needvideo games and cigarettesDavey’s always taking betsif you want to play cards for moneycash up front, or it won’t be funny”

I’ll tell you what isn’t funny—Wildcat’s complete last of respect for rap as an art form.

If this Wild Man truly feels he needs some sort of creative outlet to express himself, then I would strongly advise him to write-off Pullin’ More Than Pranks as a failed attempt to find his voice, and urge him to notch a few more years of sobriety under his belt before releasing anything, in any genre, again.

For despite the tragic deaths of rap giants Tupac Shakur, The Notorious B.I.G., Big L, and most recently Big Pun, the rap game still remains a shark tank. In fact, I daresay it is still swimming with gifted practitioners who explore gritty, compelling, and socially relevant subject matter. And the last thing hip-hop culture needs right now is some brain-dead goofball trying to steal the spotlight, and trivialize the genuine struggles and hardships of real MCs for his own perverted, egocentric gains.

I’m inclined to believe that Wildcat released Pullin’ More Than Pranks solely for his own personal amusement. Well sonny-boy, if it’s amusement you seek, then I strongly suggest you return to peddling your dope, throwing your piss-bombs, and leave the rapping to the real MCs!

After all, the new millennium’s current hip-hop landscape is as competitive and cutthroat as ever, and it’s hard enough for talented white rappers to get respect, let alone the brutally awful.

Indeed, today’s rap game could safely be called a real jungle—one in which “Wildcats” aren’t built to survive.